Mobile Suit Gundam: Iron blooded Orphans Litany
by Desecratedsymphony
Summary: In P.D.331, efforts to rid terrorist group "Mcgillis Remnants" was taken by Gjallarhorn, sending out the Heimdallr fleet, consisting mostly of fresh grads from Gjallarhorn. The Heimdallr fleet was soon ousted, forcing deployment of AI aided mobile suit Gundam Purson. Protaganist Darryl Huanm survives a sortie and becomes pilot to Gundam Purson, discovering a secret in the process
1. Prolouge

The vastness of space looked beautiful. Scary, perhaps, but never missing that essence of beauty. And as the bridge of the ship slid down, space was the only thing he saw. This scary, beautiful ball of darkness.

The members of the Heimdallr fleet knew what this meant. They knew what would happen when the bridge sinks down, when the alarm lights turn red. They knew too damned well.

It was time for a sortie.


	2. Chapter 1

Another impact hit the ship.

Overall-in-charge Lieutenant Dave Plitur yelled into the tiny communication device with Gjallarhorn HQ broadcasted over the screen: " We need reinforcements, fast! "

"We're doing all we can to help you."

"You call this help? You left us to fucking die here! No one told us we were up against veterans!"

"How are you holding up?"

"There's only one ship left, the rest are all wiped out. What's worse, the enemy got hold of half of our reginlazes.

"Hold your ground there for a few more days. We're sending a mobile suit there."

"Just one mobile suit?! I know this operation is insignificant to Gjallarhorn but that's too damned little! It just won't hold up against the reginlazes!"

"A Gundam!"

"What?!"

"We're sending you a Gundam! Something that would scare the Mcgillis remnants!"

Just when Dave was about to reply, the screen turned dead.

"Lieutenant! The remnants are deploying their mobile suits! All communications links are cut!"

Cursing under his breath, the Lieutenant slid on his helmet.

"Deploy all the Grazes and half the reginlazes we have! All other crew members get to your positions!"

A state of new-found panic seized the mass of mobile suit pilots. They normally went out to battle with only the reginlazes. What caused the sudden deployment of nearly all the mobile suits? Surely something big has come up.

Petty officer Darryl Huanm peeked over to his left. There, Chief Technician Eleanor Bystat stood checking the hydraulics on the Graze Darryl was piloting. In his own quiet little voice, Darryl sidled closer to Eleanor:

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"Falling.

Losing your way in space."

"No."

Darryl kept quiet. He didn't know how to carry the conversation further.

"Hey, Darryl!"

Looking over to his right, Darryl met with the face of fellow pilot, Rick Ce.

"I heard we only needed to hold up for about a few days, then reinforcements would start piling in."

To that Darryl merely nodded his head. He had never been in a battle that lasted a few days, much less a sortie. Wasn't a sortie supposed to be a last resort? How exactly do they expect to survive on with themselves being outnumbered and outmatched?

People are so optimistic, it's annoying.

Really, really annoying.

Darryl slid on his helmet and drummed his fingers on his thighs as final adjustments were being made to his Graze.

….

The catapult hatch opened, revealing the previously concealed space. Darryl gripped the controller and thrusted his graze towards the perpetual depths of space.

Darryl maneuvered it towards the hull of the ship and positioned himself there. He didn't like space at all. To him, space was like water, where he always drowns. He didn't like space one bit.

Rick's voice blared over the LCS speaker: " What the hell are you doing? Hostility at two o'clock"

Darryl gritted his teeth. Isn't a sortie a measure of defense? What's even the point of pitting yourself against the enemy?

A volley of fire tore through Darryl's thoughts. Hastily, he swiveled round, attempting to spot the enemy. Another torrent of shots ripped through space. He barely dodged it this time. Whipping out his rifle, he returned fire blindly, shooting out all around. Meanwhile, his distraught eyes scouted the battlefield for the enemy.

An impact on the mobile suit. The alarms in the cockpit turning red. That's all that Darryl remembered. The next moment, he was slowly climbing down the never ending space. A panic seized Darryl as he fumbled around the controls. Apparently his graze's right arm has been hit, hit again, and reduced to twisted metal. His graze's left arm twisted round to find his axe. Darryl quickly assessed the situation. His drawing speed was never high to begin with, so holding his only remaining weapon would be safest. Now that he was lacking long-range weaponry, he would be placed at the disadvantage in a ranged battle. Darryl rushed towards the nearest enemy he could find, and plunged his axe deep into its shoulder. He knew that the nano-laminate armor may be tough enough to withstand a series of fires, but it has its limits. Disabling an enemy graze and using it as a shield was the safest option. Just as his eyes skimmed the ranks of the battlefield, the enemy graze's hand suddenly lunged forward, seizing Darryl's unit by the sensor. Darryl was scared sick once again.

"I don't wanna die…"

He felt another thud from his cockpit.

"Thum, thum, thum…"

His eyes widened, and he was threw into a new-found frenzy. Clutching the control stick tightly, he swung the axe again and again.

"I don't wanna die…

I don't wanna…"

Darryl started crying, and half-crying, half-panicking, he swung the axe harder and harder.

" I don't wanna fucking die….

I don't wanna die…"

He could hear the screams from the enemy graze already, but he just kept on swinging.

"I DON'T WANNA FUCKING DIE!

I DON'T WANT TO DIE!

FUCKING DIE ALREADY!"

A sudden silence.

"I don't wanna fucking die, you hear me?! I didn't ask for this…

I didn't ask for this…"

Darryl's short-lived panic died down and he resumed crying again. His sensor was still covered by the graze hand, but he was certain the pilot was already dead. He curled up together and started crying, an unheard sadness, an insignificant pathos. He cried for the vastness of space, how scary it was, how cruel it was. He was tired, he didn't want to fight anymore. Stretching himself out on the control hatch, he sniffed and sobbed as he caught his breath.

Maneuvering his mobile suit, he plucked the enemy's hand off his sensor. A clear, albeit slightly bloodied vision of space came back to him again. Darryl tried to regulate his breathing. There was still a battle to fight.

A scream pierced through the intercom. Something thudded on his graze. His heart raced, his feet started tapping. He was nervous once again. He steadied his breathing, and plunged his hand forward. He then realized the one folly that owed him a quick decisive kill - he had nothing in his hand to purge the enemy with.

No matter.

His entire hand grabbed onto the enemy's cockpit and squeezed. Hard.

Another scream through the intercom. This time, however, it was one choked with agony. He tapped his feet even more intensively.

He squeezed the cockpit again.

Another scream.

He withdrew his hand. His hand, his mobile suit's hand, was stained with blood. Again. He tapped his feet even more intensively. Did the pilot die? Did he not? There was no sound coming from his intercom, but he couldn't be sure. He grabbed the axe from the enemy's hand - the axe that would've killed him - and struck it at the mobile suit. Blood couldn't gush out in space, but he knew. He pictured the scene in the cockpit unwillingly with his consciousness.

Was he human? No. He was a soldier.

He decided that and turned around, zooming into the battle once more.


End file.
